On the way home from the pub this afternoon I saw a 20-something couple spit-deep in a whisper fight on 178. They were impossibly shiny, possibly Scandinavian, obviously mad as Odin. I was giddy with joy. Me and the hubster altercate like two cats in a bin bag. In rare moments of self reflection I Google ‘checkerboard romance’, ‘mixed marriages’, ‘doomed to failure’. Seeing the elven Agnetha and Bjorn hissing hammer and tongs was most reassuring. If they’re having problems, there’s hope for the rest of us.
The smallest things get our goats. In the case of our connubial HQ in the heart of CharmingVille, it’s the family of rat children living inside our couch. They’re noisy little fuckers and the means of their imminent demise is a bone of contention we gnaw with gusto. I’m ashamed to say I’m a first-world coward. By that I mean I want him to do it, which is hardly fair. We don’t have kids so we can’t delegate the task. For the moment it’s rats 7, us 0.
Our cross-cultural shitfights don’t stop with pest control. There’s the ever popular ‘Please stop giving our money to strangers at their weddings.’ Every few weeks when I’m out on the piss and come back with some bawdy Instagrams, it’s ‘What’s wrong with two girls kissing?’ But ‘Honey, it’s a barang thing’ just doesn’t seem to cut it.
And don’t get me started on, do I HAVE to say it ONE more time, the fucking barbecued snakes in the crisper. I’m a flexitarian. It’s not that the things are tubes of dead meat. It’s that they’re fucking snakes. Next I’ll be reaching for the Vegemite and there’ll be owl tots in the freezer, or a wing of spiders holed up in the egg compartment. Oh… Wait…
Given my love of the spat, I’m sure my hubby hankers for a bit of single shoosh away from the bickering shrew he hitched his life wagon to. Despite his stoic demeanour, he occasionally cracks. When he’s really had it with the old ball and chain he’ll stalk out and stay there till sparrow’s fart, then stagger home wreathed in booze-reek and snuggle up with cha cha cha on the box. Which makes me want to barney even harder. How is it young Cambodians with their whole lives ahead of them enjoy repetitive hand dancing to tone-deaf lounge crooners and drippy, ersatz ’50s American music?! Honey? HONEY?
Though I said ‘I do’ with the fervour that only another unwed cougar-on-the-cusp will understand, even I occasionally daydream about nirvana on the other side of the nuptial fence. Like, how Channing Tatum could finally come over in his gimp outfit without having to answer any awkward questions and we would sit up in bed, watch New Girl and drink cups of tea.
I’m possibly making our multi-cultural mismatch sound worse than it really is. Or not. But we rub along in our own way, clinging to the odd peaceful date minute together. Just a tip, a tuk tuk ride to Takmao Wildlife Sanctuary is not one of them. Rather, I can highly recommend a breezy breakfast moto cuddle with your other half to #26 Street 108. Because the best part of fighting is the make-up noodles. Nothing says I’m sorry like a bowl of steaming hot pig organs.